


Wings of Feather and Bone

by Toastybluetwo



Category: Dragon Age, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-04
Updated: 2011-10-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 07:57:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/260925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastybluetwo/pseuds/Toastybluetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Life, in essence, goes on for those that will live it.” A connection between two worlds causes a revolution of the minds and souls of two mages. A Dragon Age/World of Warcraft crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jaina Proudmoore had not been on a horse in several years. Nor had she been to Karazhan in about the same amount of time. Yet even as she sat on the back of a fat mare, her arms around Anders’ slim waist, she found herself staring at the tower as if it was the first time she had ever seen it.

No matter what the weather promised in any of the other territories in the Eastern Kingdoms, it always seemed to be dark and cloudy in the lands surrounding Karazhan. Even at this distance, staring down and out at the tower from a land bridge that spanned a vast, rocky chasm, Jaina could feel the sheer amount of magical power in the ground itself, the leylines running under Azeroth and coming together here as they did in the Nexus in Northrend. She knew that Anders, as a mage, must have felt the same power.

Anders, however, wasn’t looking at the abandoned tower now. Nor did he seem to react to the palatable magic, even though Jaina knew that he could not ignore it. After all, the mere potential, the very charge, that came from being this close to the leylines made her scalp tingle.

He had stopped the horse, taken a brief glance at Karazhan itself, and started to say something when the beating of majestic wings and an unmistakable roar-call filled the air. Raising his head, he fixed his sight on them – gryphons, twelve of them, each with a dwarf rider.

Jaina did not know the reason that the Wildhammer dwarves rode their sturdy, regal charges at this particular moment, but it did not seem that they flew with any other purpose other than to merely enjoy the air and the freedom that came with it. They swooped proudly in formation, one in the lead with the rest in a dart shape. Even with their distance between Jaina and Anders and the riders, she could hear the dwarves shouting at one another and laughing with whooping peals.

“Gryphons,” Anders murmured. His face gained a childlike quality, filled with innocence and wonder without question of details or reason. She could see that his eyes brimmed with tears.

She heard him start to say something, but he never even finished a single word. With a sudden wordless shout that echoed off the cliffs above them in the canyon below, Anders dug his heels into the sides of the mare, urging her forward, over the land bridge, down a long, rocky path, and toward Karazhan.

There, before them, stretching across a pile of twisted rubble nearly two stories high, yawned a horrible, purple tear. Tendrils of whatever made up this anomaly stretched in all directions, gracing the crumbling walls of Karazhan, reaching into the ground below it, and swirling around the collection of mages that stood before it.

*****

“A few guards found him just east of Darkshire, half-starved and mumbling to himself.” Rhonin gestured at the unconscious man that sat, slumped over, in a chair. Jaina immediately recognized the bindings on his wrists; such shackles were meant to prevent mages from casting spells. “At first, they took him for a madman and tried to imprison them themselves, but he escaped and killed four of the guards in the process.”

“A rogue mage is nothing unusual,” Jaina murmured as she took in the details of the prisoner’s condition and dress. The cut of his coat and jerkin perhaps suggested a Gilnean origin, but he was clearly not one of the worgen, and the pale skin, hair, and prominent nose might place him as a former citizen of Lordaeron. Maybe. She could still sense his magic; it was both clean and powerful, without a demonic or undead taint about it. “Why did he gain the attention of the Kirin Tor?”

“It was the Violet Eye that reported an attack on Karazhan by Deathwing,” Rhonin continued as he paced the length of the study. “He managed to topple one of the towers. Around that time, the Violet Eye reported a massive surge of energy from the leylines themselves, and a rift materialized near the remains of the ruined tower. The Violet Eye claims that while they were taking readings of the rift, they may have seen another person in the general vicinity, but they were unable to get close enough to be sure.” Pausing in his footsteps, Rhonin extended a hand toward the prisoner, murmuring a spell as he did so. His fingertips glowed light blue for a moment before fading back to flesh. “When this prisoner was examined by magical means, they found his entire body filled with the same energy found in the rift. It is completely unique to this rift. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

Casting the same spell, Jaina quickly came to the same conclusion. Nodding her head, she lowered her hand slowly. “Other than bearing the signs of his origin on another world completely, his physiology is nearly identical to ours. Just a moment.” She cast another diagnostic spell, then shook her head. “No signs of fel energy, which would mean that he did not originate from any of the worlds that the Legion has corrupted.”

“This is his weapon.” Rhonin took up a staff that had been formerly resting upon his writing table, lengthwise, and held it in both hands. He tilted his head as his eyes graced the designs on the carved wood. “I’ve never seen designs such as these, nor any language that matches these glyphs. I’ve put my best translators to the task of deciphering them, but they’ve come up short so far.”

“Let me talk to him.” With another quickly cast spell, Jaina drew an overstuffed chair closer to the prisoner, sat on the chair, and rested her own staff on one of the chair’s ornate arms.

Rhonin nodded wordlessly at a high elf that stood in one of the darker corners of the room. The elf stepped forward toward the prisoner, lightly touching the top of the mysterious man’s head as he spoke a few sentences in Thalassian. Then, without a further word, he returned to his corner, silently waiting and watching.

The prisoner stirred, nodding his head back and forth, first almost imperceptibly, then with a soft moan as he flexed his fingers. Slowly, he raised his head, his eyes still half-closed as his gaze came to rest on Jaina’s face.

For a moment, she stared back at him as she considered the tactics that she wanted to use in this interrogation. His brown, bloodshot eyes still had a hazy quality to them, a symptom indicative of being sedated under that particular spell for more than a few hours. Jaina had expected him, due to the description of his escape in Darkshire, to show some hostility toward her, but there was none there. In fact, the more that the prisoner seemed to awaken, the softer his face became.

“Hello,” she said, leaning slightly toward him. She did not smile, but kept her voice friendly. “We don’t know where you come from, but we know that you are a mage. You are among friends here. Unfortunately, the cuffs are for your protection as well as ours.” She pointed at his bound wrists. “I would like to remove them, as I’m sure you would like them removed. If you aid us, we will do the same for you. No mage likes to see another with his or her magic restrained.”

He mumbled something, a string of words just below the threshold of Jaina’s hearing. She could have sworn that he stared at her with an expression of pity.

Light, what was he looking at?

“Could you repeat that?” Jaina spared a sideways glance at Rhonin, but only for a moment.

The prisoner raised his head a bit higher, exhaling noisily. “Dark rings under the eyes,” he said. “Trembling of the hands, a slight slur to the speech. You don’t sleep much, do you?”

The question disarmed Jaina. With an uncertain glance again at Rhonin, she answered his question: “No, no I don’t. I slept about two hours last night.”

“Chronic insomnia. A common condition among mages.” He sat up a bit straighter. “I know a recipe for spindleweed infusion that can cure chronic insomnia over time, if taken every night before bed. I’d offer to make it for you, but I doubt that there is any spindleweed nearby.” He tilted his head slightly to one side, looking almost calm in his bindings.

Jaina found his posture to be curious. Not only that, but what he had said revealed more than he meant to say. Or had he allowed the information to slip on purpose? “Do you know where you are, then?” She asked.

“In another world, clearly,” the prisoner replied, a wry smile creeping onto his lips. “I investigated an anomaly unlike anything I had seen before and found myself in a ruin with the largest concentration of pure magical energy that I have ever felt.”

Rhonin cleared his throat. “Our end of the anomaly is located on an intersection of leylines, which also happens to be located next to the former residence of one of our world’s most powerful mages.”

The prisoner’s eyes widened. “I should like to go back there and take some readings. I didn’t get time, unfortunately, to examine too much of the area for myself. The Veil isn’t just torn there, it is shredded. I’ve never seen so much paranormal activity in my life. The spirits there began to threaten me, so I tried to make a safe retreat to the rift.” His voice tinged with disappointment. “Unfortunately, I had no choice or safe path back, so I fled.”

“What do you mean by ‘the Veil’?” Jaina asked. She lightly shook her head, hoping that it would clear her curiosity. She knew that she had lost control of the interview, but perhaps this new path of discussion might reveal more than her own line of questioning could.

“I won’t allow that.” Rhonin’s voice came like a rifle shot. “Karazhan is considered not only private property but a restricted area. Mage or no, you’re still alien to us, and you’ve already proven yourself to be violent. Your magical abilities don’t automatically endear you to us.”

“I was able to determine that the rift goes both ways.” The prisoner, while clearly disappointed, did not flinch at Rhonin’s change of demeanor. “While this is a discovery that could likely shake the foundations of both of our worlds, it also places both worlds in a great deal of danger. I know that we have a variety of extremely violent and intelligent creatures that would take advantage of such an opening. No doubt, your world has the same.”

“To put it mildly,” replied Rhonin, his eyebrows tightly knitted together. “Why are you so curious about our world? Who sent you?”

“No one.” The prisoner’s posture stiffened slightly. “If you must know, I travelled to a city that had been destroyed in a…let’s just call it a substantial political event. The entire area was not only filled with paranormal and demonic activity, but reality itself became distorted in a number of places.”

“I knew it.” Rhonin looked to Jaina. “Perhaps he himself is unaware of it, but he was sent here under Legion influence.”

“I don’t think so.” Jaina replied, herself glancing between the Archmage and the prisoner. “Not this time.”

The prisoner’s voice grew tense. “I don’t know anything about your Legion. The rift on the Thedas side had clearly been there for some time, but something kept the spirits and demons away from it. The event warranted further study. I admit that I should have not gone to the ruins alone, but there was something…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“Everything is important.” Rhonin crossed the room with two quick strides and arrived at the prisoner’s side. “Go on.”

“I had to see if there were any survivors of the destruction of Kirkwall. There weren’t any remaining behind.” Now, his tones saddened slightly. “The survivors either fled or perished in the incoming onslaught. Realizing that, I camped about half an hour’s walk away and took the opportunity to examine the ruins. As I said, it was an exceedingly dangerous and foolhardy idea.”

Jaina quietly studied the man seated before him. She had been privy to many interrogations over the years, some of them led by her. She had never seen a prisoner be so forthcoming with information without following it with a threat. Minions of the Lich King and other great threats usually identified themselves quickly as such, and seemed proud to impart news of impending doom. This man seemed to enjoy sharing his findings with them for no other reason than the fact that such information had been uncovered and might be mutually beneficial.

This man himself presented a fascinating prospect, one that Rhonin’s suspicion completely blinded him to. A mage, a mage from another world that had himself participated in a remarkable and unique magical event and had information concerning said event. Not to mention that his concern over her health was, indeed, touching, even coming from someone that presented a large unknown.

It had been awhile since anyone had inquired into her health that did not do so without political motivation.

The fingers on her right hand found the ornate ring resting on her left ring finger, running over the face of the diamond worth more than the entirety of Westfall. She found that, once again, the brown eyes of the prisoner rested on her, and found a gentle expression in his gaze.

Mages could be cold. Calculating. As unfeeling as the pages of the books and scrolls that comprised so much of their life’s work and passions. This man’s demeanor had shown him, so far, to be nothing of the sort.

Politics didn’t offer much comfort either, even if it did concede to allowing a moment, every once in awhile, with another warm body and breakfast the next morning. Perhaps some conversation of time gone by, of people long dead, but never fascinating magical discovery.

“Are you hungry?” The words flew out of her mouth before she could bite them back.

“I just had lunch,” Rhonin said with a raise of his disapproving eyebrows.

“Very,” replied the prisoner, tilting his head as he continued to gaze at her. “Not to be crude, but I could also…ah, use a chamber pot, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh.” Jaina blinked hard, and sat up straighter. “Of course.” Looking to Rhonin, she silently honed her thoughts into a quick decision. “May we speak alone for a moment, Archmage?”

With a single, very tense nod, Rhonin gestured toward the window at the far corner of the room, which itself offered a brilliant view of the rooftops of Stormwind and the Royal Palace. Jaina quietly followed him there, forcing herself to stare at the Royal Palace. Its sight gave her focus. Clarity. It rid her of her own imagination, which played a scene of the prisoner dodging voidwalkers and felguards as he charged toward a great, swirling portal, throwing fireballs as he ran.

She cursed her own notions of imagined heroics. She was far too old for that.

“Just what in the Nether are you doing?” Rhonin snarled in a voice just above a whisper.

“I think we’re taking the wrong tactics with this one.” Jaina fixed her blue eyes on the front of the Royal Palace. If her imagination did need to run wild, it could conjure up scenes of Varian hard at work, sitting on his throne as he answered the petitions of his subjects. That at least was a safe place for her mind to rest. No unknowns there. “Let’s release him from the cuffs and offer him some comfort.”

“What?” Rhonin’s voice hardened. “Are you joking?”

“Certainly you and I both, along with Elderwyck over there, can handle one mage of any power.” Play to Rhonin’s ego and perceptions of his own magical prowess; it was a technique that Jaina had used many times before. “If not, then I am willing to answer to the rest of the Kirin Tor myself, and King Varian, if need be. I doubt we’ll need such measures, however. This tower has a few suites for situations that require house arrest. Imprison him in one of those, give him a chance to refresh himself, and see where the questions lead. If he was truly malevolent, he would have played his hand by now.”

“I disagree,” Rhonin replied. “He can refresh himself in the Vault. There is no reason to offer him any special treatment. Give him a night to think about whoever may have sent him through that rift, and I’ll meet you there in the morning to continue the interrogation.”

Jaina clenched her teeth and looked back at Rhonin. She knew that his mind had been made up, and he was her superior. If she wanted to ignore his orders, she would need a good, strong reason, and in truth, she could not think of a single one.

None that her emotions did not conjure up, that was.

“Very well,” she replied in a calm voice. She gave the Royal Palace one last glance, moved past Rhonin, and paused only to give the prisoner’s back a long, silent look.

He wore feathered pauldrons. In her mind’s eye, she saw Medivh, his tall and powerful form dressed with similar adornments. Medivh’s own pauldrons had given him the appearance of a crow, a form into which he commonly shapeshifted.

As the feathers upon the prisoner’s coat shivered in an unseen breeze, Jaina faintly wondered if they desired the freedom that their former owner once had. Perhaps there was a connection there, one between mages and the birds of the sky. It seemed that both needed a disconnect between the mortal binds of gravity and the endless possibilities of a wide-open horizon, in metaphor or in truth.

Bowing her head, she left the tower without another word.


	2. Chapter 2

Jaina stayed in the Royal Palace that night.

The clergy of the Church of the Holy Light pressed their lips together in withering expressions of disapproval, and the tongues of washer women wagged as they plunged water soaked garments into tubs thick with bubbles. Stormwind knew what was going on. Servants in the Royal Palace were not fools, and the obsequious royal guards were hardly blind. Lady Jaina Proudmoore had her own permanent guest suite in the north wing, and had since she was a child, but since the death of Arthas Menethil, on many nights, the bed went unused.

Despite the protestations of the older servants, King Varian met them at the door to his private rooms when they brought the breakfast tray and accepted it himself before dismissing the unfortunate souls with a small nod. Underneath the lid, in a way of silent understanding and perhaps acceptance, the royal chef had placed two of everything – two plates of eggs, two pots of tea, two slices of toast, two tomatoes, two servings of each food for an overnight guest that travelled, hidden by spells, to the King’s bed in the middle of the night.

In four years, the royal guard had yet to catch Jaina red-handed.

The day did not dawn, but instead brought with it a chilled wind and thick, black clouds. Jaina teleported directly to the entrance of the Vault, avoiding the incoming inclement weather, and the need for a cloak.

“Archmage Rhonin sends his apologies,” one of the guards told her as he led her down a very long, winding flight of stone steps. “He was called to Dalaran on an urgent errand and will not be able to make it. He said to go on with the interrogation.”

The news offered her a small amount of respite from the chill in the stairwell. Shivering, Jaina silently wished that she had taken the cloak that Varian had offered. Then again, as she descended to the cells in the Vault, she was not sure if she shivered from the cold or from the discomfort of the binding magical spells all around her. One could not teleport in or out of the Vault, nor could they create a portal of any size. The energy in the air itself and the glyphs inscribed on the walls dampened any sort of magical use, and the bindings clamped on the wrists and ankles of any inmate within the Vault sealed the inability to cast a single spell.

The air smelled stale and dry, like a tomb, like Icecrown Citadel had. It smelled like hope lost, confined, and contained. Jaina instantly hated the place.

“How is the prisoner?” She asked the guard.

The guard shrugged. “He ate well, woke up screaming and babbling about something or the other in the middle of the night, and has been praying most of the morning. He’s been pretty compliant. No complaints here.” Pausing before a cell door covered in glowing red runes, the guard placed his hand upon the surface of the door itself. It swung open with a click and a groan of rusty hinges.

A faint red glow offered the only light in the room. Jaina found the prisoner seated on the single, thin bed, his bound hands resting comfortably in his lap. He had shed his coat and jerkin, and his shirt collar stood open, the ties dangling down the front of his chest.

“I knew you would come.” In the bizarre semidarkness, his eyes gleamed, appearing almost red. “You seem more willing to listen to reason than the Archmage.”

“I prefer reason.” Jaina stepped into the cell, allowing the guard to close the door behind her.

The prisoner let out a light sigh. “That’s a pity that you think that way. It is emotion that drives us, that makes us mortal creatures with all of our faults and every single bit of our brilliance.”

There he was, allowing her to get away from the interrogation so easily. “It is also emotions that can drive us away from what needs to be done. They’re a distraction. You know why I’m here. Let’s stay with that purpose.”

He nodded, scooting backwards on the bunk so that his back rested against the glyph-covered wall. “Very well. I’m no stranger to capture or interrogation. I am a stranger to your world, however, and you want to know if I’m a threat.” He tilted his head, staring at her with what she found to be a critical gaze. “Yes. I could be a threat. I admit it. There is a part of me that is not entirely under my control, and I cannot guarantee, under the best of circumstances, that I can rein it in.”

“You’re referring to what happened in Darkshire,” Jaina said, trying to keep her voice as clinical as possible. “Last night, I received a first hand account from the sheriff there. He said that you were glowing blue, that your eyes were blue also.” She caught the tightness in her own voice even as her stomach wavered with a breakfast that had not yet been digested. “You should know that there was once someone who looked nearly identical to that when he became possessed by a very powerful entity. Your loss of control, as you call it, has caused rumors to run rampant through Darkshire and the surrounding communities that he has returned.”

The prisoner closed his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “I owe you an explanation for this, but understand that each detail will bring with it another set of explanations. There are things that you do not know about me or my world, and likely they will paint me an even greater threat in the eyes of the Archmage. How long are you willing to listen, Lady Proudmoore?”

Jaina was fairly certain that she had not given the prisoner her name, but such a detail could be easily explained. The guard could have given her name to him, or perhaps Rhonin managed it in passing. “As long as it will take,” she said in a firm voice. “I have all day.”

“In my world, I am known by the name of Anders. In my world, I am a wanted man. I’m wanted for a lot of things that I’ve done. In my younger days, I would have given the blame to someone else. I would have said, ‘Oh, it was because of this or that. It forced me to do this.’ Circumstances might have laid the foundation of my crimes, but those crimes were performed with my own two hands, regardless of motivation. Never the less, at the expense of all else, I have given birth to a political movement that has already shaken the very foundations of my world. For that part, I am proud.”

*****  
Sometime during the day, Jaina requested that the interview be moved to a surprisingly comfortable interrogation room located beneath the prison cells themselves. For an hour or so, Anders remained bound to the chair in which he sat, a fact that did not still his tongue, nor the story that it seemed that he wanted to tell.

Then, Jaina requested that a pot of tea be brought for the both of them. Tea was followed, another hour later, with lunch from a nearby inn – fried fish, thickly-cut potatoes, chopped apples, and a slice of fresh lemon pie apiece. The warden of the Vault seemed uncomfortable with the prospect of leaving Anders partially unbound for the duration of the meal, but at last conceded as long as he himself could remain in the room.

Anders ate so heartily and so quickly that Jaina let him have half of her potatoes and all of her pie, which he also quickly consumed between layers upon layers of facts. His narrative moved almost as if he had written it down as a memoir, shifting from his own life to world events and back again.

By the time that Anders finished speaking, Jaina could feel the weariness deep within her. She knew it had to be some time in the late afternoon, perhaps approaching the dinner hour, but it was not the length of the interrogation that tugged on her bones and demanded a good, strong cup of tea. It was the emotion of his story that pressed upon her mind – the tale of a man that should have, by all rights, been dead long ago, yet by his wits had managed to remain alive, yet so deeply scarred from within.

She parted her lips, started to say something, then merely sighed. Hours ago, she had given way to the very emotion that she fought to keep at bay. Hours before, she had allowed Anders to call her by her first name, after all, what did titles mean to two people from completely different worlds?

At last, she found her voice as she gazed at the bound man across the table. His own eyes appeared slightly hooded with exhaustion, and he no longer sat up so straight in his chair.

“I will be relaying the results of this interrogation to the Archmage, but…” What was there to say? Some of the most terrible events in her life were comparable to the least of his, and she realized it. “…I want to do something else. I want for you to tell your story to King Varian. He can offer you asylum even if the Archmage is unwilling to do so.”

Anders shook his head. “I can’t accept that. I can’t hide here with the knowledge that so many mages suffer with every single breath that they take.” A small, sad smile touched his lips. “There is so much left for me to give to my own world. It wouldn’t be fair of me to give it away to yours, would it?”

“Did your Hawke teach you that?” It was a surprisingly personal question, and not the first that she had asked over the preceding hours. Then again, as part of the narrative, Anders had, with frankness and without hesitation, offered a great deal of very private information, perhaps more than she needed to hear to make a determination over whether or not he posed a danger to Azeroth. However, it had done his story a great deal of credit to be so blatantly honest.

They had both suffered a great deal when it came to love. Jaina knew that they had this in common, and more.

The sad smile remained on his face. “No. You did.”

The answer surprised her. Jaina sat up straighter in her chair, tilting her head. “How did I teach you that?”

“You gave me a chance, without prejudice against me or my position in life, to tell my story. Saying it out loud has given me a new perspective.” Now, the smile was real. Genuine. An expression reflected in his own gaze.

The smile caused a lump to form in her throat. She wanted so badly to smile back, but she knew that the lump would melt into a sob, and tears would fill her eyes, and it would not do to have such a thing happen. Not here, not in front of the stone-faced warden, not in this horrible prison that she was expected to leave Anders in while she retired for the night in a sumptuous palace.

He was imprisoned, along with the countless other mage inmates, not unlike the Circles that seemed to cast long, deep shadows in the strange world of Thedas. Anders had, in Azeroth, done nothing wrong save for defending himself in an unfamiliar place.

This wasn’t fair. None of this was fair.

Yet, the possession, his willing possession, fell hollowly upon her mind, chasing the threatening tears away from her eyes. How desperate did someone have to be to allow such a thing? What drove a person to do this? What motivated them to make such a sacrifice of a pure sense of self?

She had been asking herself that question for the better part of fifteen years, and still, as she gazed back at Anders, could find no satisfactory answer except that no solid answer existed. This did not satisfy her, hadn’t in the past, and would not no matter how old she grew or whom she met during that time.

“I think that you are very kind,” she murmured as she rose from the table that stood between them, “but you are wrong about me. You say that I have no prejudices about you, yet I cannot rectify that a mage who is so deeply passionate about magic, who expects non-mages to trust in our control, would place himself in a position where he cannot constantly be in control of himself.”

She avoided his gaze. She was fairly certain that she had wounded him when he had left himself so completely vulnerable to injury.

When he spoke, she caught the hurt in his voice. “You’re right. If you recall, though, the chicken came before the egg, so to speak. Had I not surrendered control of my body to Justice, I would not have cared so deeply about the plight of the mages. I needed to abandon my sense of self to see how selfish I truly was –“

Jaina’s gaze immediately snapped to Anders’ face, her temper flaring within a mind that suddenly saw the world in a haze. “Forgive me if I declare that statement to be the largest collection of bullshit I’ve ever heard in my entire life.” It had been years since she had allowed herself to use coarse language at a time when personal influence meant everything to the situation, but somehow, it felt appropriate. “Martyrdom is the ultimate display of egocentricity. There is no regard for who it harms, and only a focus on the immediate release.”

Anders blinked hard and flinched, as if she had physically struck him. His cheeks even gained a red tinge that suggested that she had slapped him, though Jaina had not so much as cast a single spell, let alone used any actual violence against him.

It was his reaction to the verbal attack that she could never have anticipated in her most violent dreams.

“Who was he?” Anders said in a soft voice, the pained face gaining sympathy. “He harmed you so deeply that the pain of the memory of it is seeping through your skin even now.”

Their fine lunch surged in her stomach with a wave of nausea. Tears blurred her vision, but she refused to release them. Not now. Never again. “Go to hell,” Jaina snapped, and then she was gone, sweeping across the room to the door, the warden following quickly in her footsteps as she opened the door and swept up the stairs toward the cellblock.

The warden cleared his throat, the sound echoing off the solid stone and rune walls around them. “Will the Lady be returning tomorrow?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice broke as she moved past the neat rows of cell doors on her way to the exit to the prison.

She said nothing else as she reached the door. Once outside, she found herself face to face with sheets of freezing cold rain and clouds that hid any of the sun’s golden rays that might promise something other than misery. Teleporting directly to her suite at the royal palace, she strode into the bedroom, gave the room a quick glance for any servants, and saw none. Then, only then, did she throw herself on the bed and cried herself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Jaina knew that she must have missed dinner when she awoke to feel the mattress next to her sag for a moment, followed by the sensation of a warm, strong set of arms cuddling her against a powerful chest that smelled of leather and cloves.

“Are you going to tell me who did this to you, or should I just start arresting members of the Kirin Tor until someone talks?”

She didn’t love him and he didn’t love her. They had both come to this realization a few months after their affair began, and they were comfortable with this fact. Varian still deeply mourned his late wife. Jaina had laid aside the torch that she carried for Arthas, but had no desire to open her heart to another man for the remainder of her days. Yet, between them stood a strong bond of mutual respect and trust, coupled with years upon years of knowing one another.

Plus, as bizarre as their arrangement seemed at first, Jaina found Varian to be a tender, patient lover, surprisingly gentle, and always as discrete as a King surrounded by a castle full of servants and a very inquisitive son could possibly be.

Jaina did not bother to open her eyes. “Will you ever listen to me when I tell you that I don’t need protecting, or will a few bolts of ice in a few tender places give you the hint?” Then, a strange fact occurred to her – Varian was doing something that he had never done before. “You’re in my quarters.”

“I told your servants that I wanted to check on you. You missed dinner, you know. You never miss dinner.” Varian’s large hands stroked her hair. “And, I’m afraid, there’s more. Rhonin is waiting in the library.”

Jaina sighed and buried her face into the soft folds of Varian’s shirt. “Tell him that I’m ill. Tell him that I’m not here. Better yet, tell him that I’m dead.”

“Get up.” The hands on her hair moved to one of her arms, giving it a tug that forced her into a sitting position. “This isn’t like you at all. You don’t avoid your adversaries. You run headlong into them.”

Jaina focused on the hem of Varian’s tunic as the remnants of her long inquiry with Anders returned to her mind. How had he known so much about her? How had he known exactly what to say, and that something could so easily cut her so deeply? Perhaps he was a telepath of some sort – no, it was an unlikely scenario. He had revealed so much to her that keeping such a thing a secret would have been almost out of character.

She quietly cursed herself. Before she had allowed her own emotions to overtake the interview, she had been quite unwilling to abandon Anders to another night in the Vault, which, she did not doubt, must have reminded him of his time in solitary confinement. What Anders had said should not have changed her desire to save him from that fate.

Why had she allowed him to affect her in such a way? He was a mage, but not like any that she had known in years. The mere thought made her wince as she realized that he reminded her, in a way, of Kael’thas Sunstrider – the compassion, the wisdom, and the power that lay just below the surface of barely tempered anger. Even before he descended into madness, Jaina knew that Kael was capable of incredible amounts of damage and violence if one pressed him to both. She did not need to consider that Anders was capable of the same; she had eyewitness accounts to that effect.

She grimaced at the realization that this very aspect of Anders was the one that intrigued her the most.

I’m too old for this, she thought as the memory of Anders’ soft brown eyes, of the sadness within them as he recounted the tale of the death of a former lover whose name Jaina could not recall. Too old for instability, too old for unpredictability.

Yet she found herself wanting to see those eyes again.

Even laying that aside, she did owe him an apology. Perhaps one of the house arrest suites in the mages’ complex would suffice.

“I’ll make it quick,” Jaina said as she slipped off the bed, stood up, and smoothed out the wrinkles in the folds of her robes. “Could you tell the servants to send a sandwich to my room? I assume that you’re busy this evening.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Varian also stood up, though he quickly made his way toward the door. “Falstad Wildhammer found a cask of brandy that apparently belonged to my father, and showed up, unannounced, wanting to share it with me. I was able to distract him for a few hours down in the gryphon hatchery, but I’d be committing a gross diplomatic error if I refused a dwarf’s spirits.” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Do dwarves ever not want to drink? I’m just not in the mood.”

Jaina offered him a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ve never seen you drink brandy in all of the years I’ve known you. Try to enjoy it, and the company.”

She had not yet parted ways with Varian, and already she found her mind filled with images of another place entirely. She saw Anders seated in the semidarkness of his cell, resting on the bed, his eyes fixed on the very glyphs that secured the four walls around him.

*****  
“It’s an incredible amount of information. I will give you that.”

Rhonin sat at the writing desk that Varian tended to occupy whenever he wanted to spend time in the library, though Jaina knew that Varian wasn’t much of a man of letters. The King of Stormwind liked books of maps and theory of war, but he tended to be more of a collector of tomes than one who spent much time with them.

Drumming his fingers on the polished oak surface of the writing desk for a moment, Rhonin cast a tired look in Jaina’s direction. She had no doubt that his exhaustion came from teleporting several thousand miles twice in the same day, which tended to completely drain even the most powerful of mages.

“We have no real basis to refute his story or to believe it, but I will tell you this. High ranking members of the Violet Eye have already risked their lives breaching the rift. They report a ruined city on the other side, at least four times the size of Stormwind and filled entirely with demonkind that we have never before encountered. We will need a small army to successfully gain a foothold in this new world, but such a thing would be foolhardy. Already it seems that this city is a very volatile political symbol. Our arrival on top of that might be disastrous.”

Rhonin sighed, closing his eyes as he rubbed them with his fingers. “I can’t make a snap decision about this, Lady Proudmoore, and I won’t. You speak of a world where our kind is vilified worse than in our own – ten times worse or more. The spirit of discovery beckons, but at the worst time, and at its most dangerous. We’ve got our own problems here. We can’t go charging into a world with its own. Thedas does not seem to be Draenor, after all.”

Jaina nodded her head, ignoring the discontented growls and grumbles that came from her stomach. “What is your ruling concerning Anders, then?”

“I refuse to make a solid decision concerning him until I’ve spoken with the remainder of the Council of Six. We have yet to see him at his worst; it’s a wild card that I might later regret playing.” Rhonin waved one hand before threading it through his own red and grey hair. “He remains under arrest, however, and I leave it to you to set the terms of his confinement. Offer him asylum again. If he refuses, and he truly wants to return to his home world, then the Six will determine the hour when that will be the most appropriate. If he becomes violent, I reserve the right to rescind all offers and to immediately confine him to Tol Barad.” He tilted up his head, looking directly into her face. “I’m placing my trust in your judgment because, frankly, I just don’t have the time to handle the Anders affair myself. I will be expected to give a report to the leaders of the Horde and Alliance about this rift, and you know the level of political unrest that it will place in an already volatile situation.”

She gave a single nod. “Understood. I will have Anders confined to the apartments within the mage’s tower. I believe that there is no one currently using them.”

Rhonin rose slowly from the writing desk, taking up his staff. “If that is your decision, I will make the order for him to be transferred there tonight. I’ll leave an apprentice on watch should Anders require anything. The golems should adequately cover the remainder of security, since we’re fairly certain that he doesn’t know any teleportation or portal spells.”

*****  
Jaina allowed herself to spend a little over an hour tossing and turning in the massive, ornate four-poster bed in the royal palace before rising. She chose instead to make attempts to quell her sleeplessness.

She made a cup of herbal tea and drank it, her mind full of thoughts that tumbled across one another like murky water over sharp rocks. While trying to sleep, she had allowed her imagination to run wild, to mix memory with falsehood, with depictions of places that she had never been. She saw Karazhan, in ruins with its very ruined tower, standing in the shadow of a Dark Portal so very tall that it threatened to block out the blood-red sun. She saw mages in chains, kneeling, sobbing at the feet of a figure in the robes of the Archbishop of the Church of the Holy Light.

It was a scene that caused her to draw a hot bath and drink the rest of her cup of tea while soaking in the warm, fragrant water. She wanted to purge her thoughts. She wanted to relax.

She had heard the stories about mages in the older days of Azeroth, how they had been mostly distrusted and feared. Nothing, however, came close to the level of oppression that Anders described.

The scene changed, and suddenly Anders knelt, alone, at a whipping post, his bare back covered with horrible, open wounds. She could see the raw, oozing flesh and the bloodstained ribs – injuries that should have caused him to lie on the floor, writhing in pain. Instead, he folded his bound hands before his face, closed his eyes, and prayed to gods that she did not know, asking for the forgiveness of his sins.

Sitting up straight in the soapy water, Jaina shivered. She wondered if the lack of sleep was, at last, starting to fracture her sanity. Perhaps her conscience was whispering in her ear and winding into her mind. Something felt undone. Unfinished.

She could not remain in the palace in this state of mind. Rising from the tub, she quickly dressed, taking an occasional glance at the darkened windows of her suite, which revealed the occasional flash of lightning among rivulets of rain. This sight only caused her to add a cloak to her simple robes before she teleported directly to the mage tower.

The hour was late, or perhaps early, but either way, it was well past the hour where the night watchmen had put out the street lamps of Stormwind. The moment she arrived in the entry to the tower, she knew that she should not have come there. There were times to follow one’s emotions and times to leave well enough alone, and somehow she sensed that even in her arrival, she had crossed the line.

Jaina expected to see the apprentice that Rhonin had mentioned during the course of her report. Perhaps she would talk with this apprentice under the pretense of being concerned about her prisoner’s welfare, and would simply return to the castle. Anders would never have to know that she was there. However, though she saw evidence of another occupant of the lower floor of the tower – a plate of fresh cookies on the counter of the tiny kitchen, a still-steaming pot of tea, and a cloak hung on a peg that dripped still with fresh rainwater – she did not see the apprentice.

As she ascended the staircase to the suites, she passed several pairs of golems, each standing in silent, eternal guard. They did not move as she made her way upward and around each spiral; her presence had gone noticed, noted, and then ignored, for she had been in the tower countless times in the course of her life. The golems knew that she belonged there, even if she did not.

The door to the suite closest to the top of the tower had no handle, no latch, no locks, and certainly no traditional keys. Only a single glyph upon the face of the door, the swirling arms of the design glowing with a faint red light, suggested that the room was occupied. The door itself, however, would no more bar her presence than the golems would. As she placed her hand on the glyph, a single, small voice whispered in her mind, reminding her of the rules of propriety. He could be asleep. He could be naked – a thought that made Jaina’s cheeks burn, but not an entirely unwelcome thought. She pushed it aside as the door swung open, and she stepped into the sitting room of the suite.

The fireplace roared and crackled with a mighty flame that stretched invisible waves of gentle, calming heat way beyond the borders of the hearth. As the door clicked shut behind her, the aroma of a savory meal – something both spicy and meaty – reached her nostrils, as well as the calming scent of tea.

“For someone that doesn’t like me very much,” Anders said in a voice that betrayed his apparent tension, “you can’t seem to stay away from me.”

She saw him sitting on one of the plush, brocade chairs near the hearth. He held a book in one hand, and a cup of tea in the other, both of which were softly laid aside on a nearby table as he rose to greet her. Upon his face sat a dubious, uncertain expression.

Anders was right in what he said. Jaina raised her chin slightly. “It’s not that I don’t like you, Anders. We have a number of basic philosophical tenants that we greatly disagree upon. Unfortunately, they are very much a part of our own lives. They make us as much a part of who we are as the color of our hair, for example.”

He crossed the room and stopped to stand in front of her. With the fingers of his left hand, he lightly touched a lock of his own hair. “Blond. Like you. Mage – also like you. These things are a part of who we are, but we are more than that. We are the sum of these plus our lives, our memories, and our souls.”

Light, is he tall, Jaina thought as she raised her head even higher in order to meet his gaze. Slight, slim, and small-boned, not unlike a blood elf, but easily as tall as Varian and a fraction of his weight. “That’s a good point,” she murmured, finding herself at loss for any better words.

“Will you allow me to make an observation without getting angry?” Anders paused for a moment, waiting for her implicit permission, then continued: “I’m a physician. A spirit healer. It is my task to seek out maladies in people even when they don’t know that they are ill.” His voice grew gentle, almost dreamlike. “You are ill, Jaina. Tired. Lonely. Afflicted by melancholy. These conditions are a weight pressing down on your entire life.” He placed a hand on her bare arm, his long fingers, each one strong and very warm, pressing into her skin.

Jaina bowed her head. So much for paranoid theories concerning telepathy. He was simply a skilled physician, gifted in both empathy and healing. “You read me like a book,” she quietly confessed without knowing why. “Rhonin said something, didn’t he? He told you about…I’m not sure what he might have said that would have given you a clue…” She trailed off, uncertain what she really meant to say.

“You’re only slightly wrong. Look at me.” The command caused her to raise her eyes, and when she did so, she found that he was shaking his head. “You bow to no one, milady, least of all me. Even if I have embarrassed you, which I did not intend to do.”

“Well, there’s where you’re wrong,” Jaina murmured, amusement tempering her voice. “I am outranked by quite a few people that I see every single day.”

“Like your boyfriend?” Anders’ eyebrows shifted slightly upward in his own presumptuousness.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jaina said quickly, and with a pronounced wince. “I loathe that term. We’re far too old for it – who told you -? Rhonin? It’s none of his blasted business.”

Anders crossed his arms, but the amused lift of his eyebrows remained. “If you must know, it was the warden of the Vault who told me. There are so few rational souls in the Vault that he seemed in need of someone to chat with, and I was willing to be that person. May I make another observation?”

“I don’t know if I’m comfortable with your observations, Anders.” Jaina stepped back from his grasp as she spoke.

“You don’t seem to be very proud of your relationship with King Varian,” Anders noted, the teasing tones gone from his voice. “You would think that the lover of a very powerful king of a very powerful nation would sing such a fact from the rooftops. Why do you try to keep it such a secret?”

“Because…because…” Jaina drew a few quick breaths, fighting the urge to be so flabbergasted as to fall into silence. “It’s not what you think. He’s never going to ask me to marry him. He already has an heir. He needs nothing from me.”

“Save for sex.” Anders’ words came on the heels of hers.

“No! Yes. I mean, no!” Jaina groaned, her arms open, palms up in a gesture of defeat. “By the Light, is it the custom of your world to be so very explicit with this sort of discussion?”

“Among mages? Frequently,” Anders replied. There was that smile again, hiding just barely at the corners of his lips. “I do not deny that physical intimacy, while not a need for survival, makes life significantly easier and more satisfying to live. Why do you deny your own desires?”

Jaina let out a small, embarrassed laugh. “I don’t deny anything.”

Anders leaned forward slightly. “Liar,” he said simply.


	4. Chapter 4

“Let me ask you this.” It was Jaina’s turn to cross her arms and to stare him down. “What good does it do to be so honest with one’s personal needs?”

“I’m not really certain what you’re referring to, because you are so completely unwilling to be explicit,” Anders said with a shake of his head. “Are you trying to attack me for having so many lovers in the past? I’m not ashamed of it. For sleeping with men? Again, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sleeping with women, as well? At the same time? All in fun.” He held up a hand, spreading his fingers wide. “I’m a free man. I gave myself to someone and it’s quite over, by his determination. So I move on.”

“And what good did it do you to love him at all?” Jaina saw the hole in Anders’ armor and took that very opportunity to strike.

The blow was true, indeed. Anders’ eyebrows knitted together as the grin slowly dissolved. “There is risk in everything, milady. Three years of love – true, selfless, amazing, wonderful love – it was worth the pain. If faced with the choice to travel back through time and fall in love with Hawke in the past, I would do it again and again and again. At least I have that. At least I know what I want.”

He had struck back, and Jaina, once again, winced. Varian’s face floated into her mind, then dissolved into smoke as she turned away from Anders, hugging her arms to her chest.

What did she really want? Why hadn’t her affair with Varian solved anything at all?

Why did she still feel as hollow and as empty as the day that Arthas died?

“You speak of being old to use such words – that’s all trivial.” Anders’ words fell hollowly in her ears as she closed her eyes. “No doubt that you think that you are too old to step out on a limb. When you grow too old to take a risk, you die. Life is about change, Jaina. There is no safe bet.”

Part of her felt like crying as hard as she had earlier in the day, throwing herself upon the softest surface and sobbing until the gentle touch of sleep bore her away. Tears felt like too much of an escape now. Sleep was an escape, a denial of the real, right in front of her, of her own needs, her desires, and an inescapable craving for pure release.

Her thoughts ignited with the challenge of the verbal assault, of an intellectual battle unlike any that she had experienced in many years. Magic could be cold, her own magic certainly was, with her mastery over water elementals and snow and bolts of ice.

Arthas was cold and truly dead, his body in places unknown, a place of darkness and decay that stood so far from the vigor of life.

She was warm.

She was alive.

Jaina did the last thing that she could have imagined herself doing, yet it was what she truly wanted – the excitement of the risk, of the unquenchable, unpredictable ride of life. She turned around, closed the distance between herself and Anders, stood on her tiptoes, seized the corners of his jacket, and kissed him, hard, and fully on the lips.

Anders did not resist. He bent over further to allow her better access to his body as he slid an arm around her, over her shoulders, and pressed her closer to him.

He was letting her lead, and she knew it. If this was the case, then she would lead, and she did, pushing her tongue between his lips and into the warmth of his mouth. A whimper escaped his throat. She fought the urge to smile.

He broke the kiss to press his lips against her bare collarbone, and started to draw a line across her shoulders with his tongue. It was then that she gritted her teeth, drew a sharp breath, and gently pushed him away, ignoring the aching of her own body as his eyes found hers and silently asked a question.

“I’m not easy,” she told him.

“That’s painfully obvious.” Anders’ voice sounded a bit higher in pitch. She caught the color in his cheeks, and the quick cadence of each one of his shallow breaths. “Painfully.”

“Sit.” Jaina pointed at the chair that he had formerly been occupying with the jab of a single finger. “I don’t want to strain to kiss you.”

“Wouldn’t milady prefer the bed?” Anders asked with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Sit.” Her voice was sharp as she pointed again. She couldn’t think. She only wanted to kiss him again.

Moving toward the fire, Anders sunk onto the chair, his legs open, his lap and eyes both tempting and inviting.

Jaina knew then what she had to do. She knew what she wanted to do, and the heat and smell of him, his sweat and need and the dust from the Vault that still clung to his clothes, begged her for it.

It was all she could do not to smile. It felt positively wrong to want to do this so badly.

Slipping off her soft velvet shoes, she climbed into his lap, one leg astride each hip. She did not pull up the large folds of her robes, but left them between him and herself, a sacred curtain, a boundary that would not be crossed. She felt one of his hands slide behind her head, guiding her back to the place where her lips had once dwelled.

He fought to take control of the kiss from the moment their lips met, immediately pushing his tongue into her own mouth, but she had one card yet to play in her hand. Lowering her hips onto his lap, she found easily the place in his trousers that hid a hardened, needful length of flesh, and she ground herself against it.

Breaking the kiss with a gasp, Anders’ fingers tightened in her hair.

Smiling, Jaina moved again, her hips against his, their bodies separated by so much fabric. Now, he groaned loud enough to embarrass her, the heat moving over the entirety of her face, but she refused to stop. She couldn’t stop. She wanted to taste him until the flavor washed away the last vestiges of dust, age, and decay.

His hips pushed against hers, and she responded in kind, their bodies moving as if they were connected, as if the cruel clothing did not exist. Raising her head, she stared into his eyes, those brown eyes, so wide and so filled with desire.

When his free hand found one of her breasts and squeezed, her head surged, but she did not bother to push his fingers away.

“Do you want me to beg?” Anders spoke through clenched teeth and among ragged gasps of breath. “What do you want?”

“This.” Her own voice sounded winded in her ears. “Just this.” Her lips traced the line of his jaw, settled at what seemed to be a comfortable, warm spot filled with the masculine fragrance of pure desire, and licked.

His hips bucked against hers, settling into an urgent yet steady rhythm as her tongue drew long lines over his jaw and down his neck, stopping only to taste a single drop of sweat that had made a journey from his forehead to one of his cheeks.

“You can have me any way you want,” Anders gasped between deep, wordless moans. “Any way you want.” The hand on her breast teased the hidden nipple with both his fingertips and fingernails.

Whimpering, Jaina stopped her hands from doing what they truly wanted, which was to cast a spell that would release the lacings of the bodice of her robes before guiding that nipple to his pale yet beautiful lips. “I want you like this,” she whispered, thrusting against him, gyrating until her back began to protest from the effort. “Like this.”

“Cruel,” he groaned, bending forward only so much so that he could draw her into another hard, probing kiss. The hand on her breast moved to the small of her back and pushed, applying pressure in a rhythm that followed each frenzied thrust.

At last, she made a concession when his lap alone and hidden hardness became insufficient for the task. Freeing her lips from his, she met his gaze as her fingers pushed away the many folds of fabric, her small hand sliding between their heated bodies, into her silk smallclothes, and through the moist curls hidden inside. A finger found the straining, aching nub, curled, and began to rub.

Anders’ eyes widened before he urged his hips upward, Jaina’s knuckles brushing him from within, offering pleasure that she herself did not intend. The groans faded into hot, heated pants with each single thrust, loud breathing that substituted for a muted voice.

In Jaina’s mind’s eye, she saw Varian standing near the hearth, his lips tightened with disapproval and betrayal in his gaze.

She decided that she did not give a damn.

She had intended to slide her fingers inside of herself, to make as big of a show of it as possible – to torture Anders for humiliating her, for forcing her to talk of things that she did not want to discuss, for reminding her so much of Kael’thas and his broad intellect and every single one of Arthas’s weaknesses.

Instead, her body had other plans, and she went with them, her heart pounding in her ears as the world spun around her. There were no individual waves of pleasure, but a single wall that took possession of her belly and limbs and held her in its hold as she gasped against Anders’ neck.

His hand was on hers, yanking it out of her smallclothes and, before she could stop him, sliding her wet, fragrant fingers between his lips. Closing his eyes, he sucked with almost desperate force, a deep rumble rising in his throat as she felt him pulse beneath her, over and over, the wool of his trousers growing damp against her thigh.

“You cheated,” she whispered against his neck, still dizzy, feeling as if she had just drunk too many glasses of Azeroth’s finest champagne. She tugged her fingers free of his mouth with a soft squishing noise.

“Mm,” Anders murmured, “I’m not the one with the boyfriend. Mine left me, remember?”

His large hands slid up the sides of her cheeks, cupping her chin, but she was unwilling to open her eyes. Not yet. “I told you, he’s not my boyfriend. It’s an arrangement. He is a friend.”

“With benefits,” said Anders. His voice sounded very calm from within her own personal darkness. “My trousers are ruined, you know. That’s your fault.”

Order returned to her fuzzy mind, chasing away every snappy answer, every attempt to push him away and flee back into Varian’s arms. Opening her eyes, Jaina found that Anders’ face was very close to hers. She could smell the tea on his breath, and saw her face reflected in his half-closed eyes. A contented smile sat on his pale lips.

“I’ll see that you are sent a change of clothes.” She found herself at odds even as she spoke. Jaina’s limbs fought against her mind, wanting to stand up, to rid herself of being forced to look at him. Everything within her that had needed this moment, wanted it, craved it when there was no other opportunity – it wanted also the gentle look upon his face, the warmth of his hands on her cheeks, and those eyes, so alive and brilliant.

Perhaps she should have predicted that he would kiss her again, even as she slid from his lap and started to stand up. One hand remained on her face, enough to turn her head gently toward him, to brush his lips so very gently across hers.

“I, ah…” Jaina closed her eyes again, aware of the fact that their faces remained dangerously close. “Uh, I rule a city state whose borders sit in a war zone. Did the warden tell you that?” I could have said that better, she thought. I sound like a bumbling idiot.

“He did tell me that part.”

She could feel his breath on her lips, and could not repress a shiver, no matter how much she tried. “I need to return for a week or so to perform my duties, to listen to petitions, and to monitor the general state of the city. I shall return after.”

“And what if I need you?” Again, he treated her to a featherweight kiss that sent shivers down her arms.

“You can, ah…” Jaina forced herself to stand up straight and open her eyes, to throw her shoulders back and regain some semblance of dignity. She knew that her hair must have been awry, that her robes were wrinkled and likely bore evidence of Anders’ release. “Send a message by the apprentice assigned to watch over you. He or she should be far enough in their duties to know a teleportation spell, at least.”

“And what shall I do in the meantime?” Anders stood up, removing his jacket as he did so. He did not bother to hide the stain on his lap.

“You can…” Jaina found herself looking around the room for a single idea. Anders could have, and had done in the past, much worse in terms of a place to be incarcerated. There were thick books on a variety of topics in each of the bookshelves, a writing desk that bore a box of fresh paper and a number of quills, and a chessboard. Oh, yes. That was it. “Have you ever played chess?”

“Never,” he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “Would you teach me?”

“I haven’t the time, but there are many well-written books on the subject, with diagrams, even.” Yes. That was it. They could play chess. He could tell her about the magical theory of his world, and she could tell him about hers.

Then, perhaps they could take the conversation to the bedroom.

Or, perhaps not. Jaina shook her head, trying her best to keep focused on the topic at hand. “It’s a game of thinking and strategy. Many mages play it. I’m not terribly good at it, so you are likely to beat me even with a small amount of skill.” Feeling that the conversation had begun to decline, and the sudden call of her own bed, she started toward the door to the suite.

His words stopped her in her tracks. “What if the Six rules before you return? What if I never see you again? What then?”

There was no desperation in his voice, but mere curiosity. It was enough to cause her to turn to him, to take in the smile upon his face and the barely-veiled amusement in his gaze.

“Then I will continue on with Varian, you will reconcile with Hawke, I will continue to listen to grown men placed in charge of countless citizens squabble like a group of school children, and you will continue to inspire mages to revolt against the Church.”

“Chantry,” Anders gently corrected her.

“Whichever,” said Jaina.

“Life, in essence, goes on for those that will live it.” Anders gave Jaina a small bow. “Good night, milady. I hope to see you again.” The smile, for a moment, turned positively impish. “After all, you weren’t very kind to me over there, were you? I’ll remember that, you know.” By the time he finished speaking, he narrowed his eyes, and simply placed his pointed gaze directly on her face.

The foreshadowing was enough to bring a shiver to her body again. This was lover’s anticipation, the hope of another caress, another kiss, greater excitement, the unknown. She remembered this.

Light, the next few days would be long.

Dropping a small bow of acknowledgement, Jaina turned and moved wordlessly from the room. Tugging at the corner of her own lips was the smallest of grins.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

In Stormwind, she was a guest.

In Theramore, she was at home.

She had left Stormwind so quickly that she had not bothered to wash her face or brush her hair, so the first thing she reached for, upon arriving back in her own tower with a light bag filled with a few personal effects, was her silver hairbrush.

Setting the bag next to her vanity table, she dropped onto the bench, putting bristles to a lock of hair in preparation to make her appearance somewhat more in ordered. It was then that she looked into the mirror and saw it tangled between two strands of hair peppered with thinner, white hairs: a single feather.

With a tug, she drew the feather out of her hair and studied it. She did not recognize the type of bird from which it came, for the shaft was too thick and the individual strands were too fine to be from any of the black birds of Azeroth.

It was then that the memory of the previous night came to her all at once – her tongue drawing a line down Anders’ neck as her hair fell, like a cascade, over his shivering feathered pauldrons.

Jaina smiled to herself, and placed the feather on the vanity table next to a small comb.

*****  
There simply was no warning. The door opened wide, two particularly large and sour-faced guards slipped into the room, flanked the door, and in walked King Varian Wrynn.

Anders was grateful that he had received the new clothes that he wore a few hours before the quite-unannounced appearance of the king. Valessa, the apprentice in charge of his welfare, had gone home to borrow an old set of trousers, braces, a shirt, and stockings from her elderly father. Fortunately, the old man was nearly as thin as Anders; however, Valessa’s father was several inches shorter. Anders wore his boots and tucked in the trousers, but nothing could hide the fact that his wrists clearly peeked out from the tops of the cuffs.

At first, Anders froze in place. He sat at the writing desk, a quill pen in one hand and a sheet of parchment half-filled with writing before him. He had never seen the human king, yet this man could, clearly, be no one else. Anders made this safe assumption even despite the fact that Varian had left most of his jewelry at home and dressed in a plain tunic and cloak.

Perhaps it was the bearing, the stature that so many men of power bore, the way that they all seemed to carry themselves. Anders felt almost instant revulsion at this posture, this artificial sense of self-assurance carried on the mere consequence of birth.

He noticed from the moment that he met Jaina, that she did not have such a posture. Perhaps it was because she wore the armor of a leader and realized that the crafting was far from complete; the gaps the plate, in her sense of self, made her seem more human, more approachable.

More alluring.

“Good afternoon, Anders. Am I disturbing you?” Varian stepped into the room and out of the doorway, allowing one of the guards the chance to close the door behind him.

It was a conventional conversational go-to. Anders was well aware that Varian, in his position, couldn’t possibly care less if Anders had been busy working on a second bomb, his chess moves, or dancing a shimmy.

He would stand up. He wouldn’t bow. Varian wasn’t his king, after all, even if Anders was as human as he.

“What can I do for you?” Anders stood up, taking a moment to place his quill safely in the inkwell.

He remained behind the desk, a deliberate choice in positioning. He knew that Varian might want to see some sort of hospitality on Anders’ part, but this was a prison. A posh prison, but still, Anders was being held against his will. He could no more offer Varian tea and cakes than Anders could leave the room unguarded.

A wanted, hated apostate behind a desk. A king in front. Anders tried not to smile at the irony of the switch of positions of power.

Varian did not seem so ruffled by any of this, if he noticed it at all. “Are you content with your accommodations?” He inquired. Though his tones seemed friendly, there was roughness to his voice.

To this question, Anders did not bother to hide his irritation. “I am in a new world and unable to study it,” he pointed out. “I am a prisoner. I think you can see why I might not like them very much.”

Varian gave a single nod of his head. “Fair enough.”

Anders took another moment to study the older man on the other side of the writing table. Clearly, he had no idea what had transpired the previous evening between Anders and Jaina. Or, if Varian did, it wasn’t the main purpose of his visit. There was no strutting, no obvious displays of metaphorical bright plumage, and no threats. Varian hadn’t come across the desk at Anders and hit him, which, in truth, was something that Anders did feel a small amount of worry concerning.

After all, Varian Wrynn was clearly a warrior king. Anders was certain that he could have given King Alistair a serious challenge, if not beat him entirely, in a fair fight. Anders was also just as certain that Varian could probably break a few of his ribs before he could finish the incantation on a protection spell.

“Archmage Rhonin has, this morning, presented his report concerning the Karazhan rift and your story to the Alliance as a whole,” Varian continued, his gaze not leaving Anders’ face. “I find many of the points of the report to be rather disturbing.”

“You’re not the only one,” Anders replied.

“I am prepared to make a number of offers to you and the people of Thedas,” said Varian, the only indication that he had heard Anders’ comment in the slight lift of his eyebrows. “I am acting as an official representative of the Alliance in this matter. The Kirin Tor might make their own offers, and by no means do I ask that you –“

Varian stopped dead in the middle of his speech when Anders suddenly realized what, in fact, the human king was implying, and Anders began to laugh.

“Is something funny?” Darkness crept into Varian’s words, but the difference was very subtle.

“You imply that I am in any position to accept any deals,” Anders said, his own words strange and twisted with amusement as he fought to pull the laughter to a standstill. “With all due respect, perhaps you should have listened to Archmage Rhonin’s report a bit more clearly. You would know then than I am a wanted criminal, the lowest of the low, of low birth, low actions, and high intentions.”

“Mm, is this the game we’re playing then?” The dark eyebrows came together, but only in an expression of concentration. “Fine. Let’s look at what we can offer versus what Thedas has. Let’s start with you. I am well aware of your circumstances. I am also aware that you have been offered asylum and refused, though given your excuse, I can understand why. You claim to have organized a revolution. Do you intend to lead it?”

The question irked Anders, and he did not bother to hide it. After all, it wasn’t Wrynn’s world, and it wasn’t any of his damned business. “No.”

“Then don’t.” Varian held up both hands, tilting them somewhat, to suggest a bigger picture. “Encourage your fellow mages to escape to Azeroth before the rift on the Thedas side becomes heavily guarded by the governments of your world. Any mages from Thedas that request asylum from me, regardless of race, will be granted that request. The Blood Elves have shown interest in housing the Dalish, should they wish it. I would not take such an offer, but that is their choice to make.”

“Why would the mages want to leave Thedas?” Anders asked. “Why would the Dalish? Because they don’t fit the status quo? The world of humans and the Chantry?”

“There is living for a principal and living dangerously, and living a life.” Varian’s eyes narrowed. “I have no doubt that there are mages that dream of owning their own land and not living their entire lives in a cage. Certainly the Dalish must dream of an ancient forest where they can heal the land, work with it, and live among it without fearing for the lives of their children.”

“You didn’t answer my questions,” Anders pointed out, tilting his head slightly as he spoke. Maker, the man had a serious problem seeing the forest for the trees. Then again, most men of power seemed to have that issue.

“You speak of ideas, Anders. What I offer is a practical solution.” Varian crossed his arms as he spoke. “It does not change your world or solve any of your world’s political problems, but it saves lives. Is that not what you want?”

“It separates friends from one another, Majesty, and tears families apart.” Anders left the desk and moved in front of it, closing the distance between himself and Varian. “If you wanted to offer the mages something of better use, your armies would be more appropriate.”

“No.” Varian hardly moved as Anders came to stand in front of him. “Within the last ten years, my people fought a war on another world and suffered incredible casualties for a cause that we could barely call our own. Did Lady Proudmoore not tell you of our current conflict with the Twilight’s Hammer? We can’t spare a single man, even in the name of diplomacy.”

“Then I must refuse your offer, as you believe that I am in a position to refuse,” said Anders. Within him, it stirred – the force that was so much a part of him now, the part of him that he hated so deeply yet embraced so completely. There was no reason to draw Vengeance out. He was in no physical danger and there were no innocents being harmed. Yet, he felt the conversation wearing on him, tiring him, and he wanted it very much to end.

“You have yet to hear the entire offer, because you are too busy spouting ideals to listen to reason.” Oh yes. Anders heard it – the warning in Varian’s own voice. Perhaps it was a warrior’s own rage that began to grow restless in the face of a futile situation, and desired the use of a sword that he had not brought with him. “There are Night Elves that wish to heal the land destroyed by the darkspawn. The Ironforge dwarves want to offer their assistance to their brethren on Thedas to clear the Deep Roads and reclaim their lost lands. Do you not see the potential here?”

“Thedas is at war.” Anders wished suddenly that there was some way that he could get away from Varian. There was no way to win this argument. Any further words would mean a waste of time. “We don’t need talk or gardening, Majesty, when both will be wasted. There are greater things at stake, such as innocent lives. Every moment that people sit about and talk, a mage suffers abuse at the hands of the Templars.”

“Damn you!” Varian’s cheeks reddened as his lips turned up in a snarl. “You are so consumed with your crusade that you threaten lives with your hand-wringing. You don’t even see it! I offer you aid for your people, and instead you complain that it’s not the aid that you want!”

“So it’s a handout that you’re offering.” Anders returned to the desk, moving away from the tense form of the king, and out of range of his rather large fists. “Your world pities mine. There is no equality in pity. Fortunately, I’m in no position of power, so you are quite able to make your offers to those that have it. In the meantime, it offers me little comfort. I’d rather be free in my own world.” He sat in the writing desk’s chair again, a way of punctuating his words.

Varian trembled with silent rage for several seconds, hands balled into fists, white teeth clenched and grinding ever-so-slightly. The guards exchanged glances, and one even rested his gauntleted hand on his own sword.

Then, the tension drained from the room, almost as if an invisible breeze shifted from within. Raising his chin, Varian closed his mouth, ran a hand over his fine garments, and relaxed.

“Then we have nothing more to say to one another,” Varian said. “You killed several men in Darkshire, and the penalty for such a crime is death. Unfortunately, you are in the possession of the Kirin Tor, so I cannot have you executed myself. Pray that your status in this matter does not change.”

Inwardly, Anders pushed Vengeance away with all of the mental strength that he could muster. No. This was not the time for violence. He simply sat at the writing table, resting his fingertips on the smooth surface of the wood, and waited.

He breathed, he calmed himself, and watched as Varian turned and left the room without another word.

*****

“The issue is one of economics, milady.” The treasurer did not look so happy to speak these words, but they were his to report. “Nine out of ten of the last shipping vessels carrying goods to Theramore were attacked by the Horde. Four were destroyed. The major shipping companies would prefer to use Ratchet as a base of operations rather than Theramore, and don’t want to do business with us. It makes them look as though they are taking sides.”

Jaina did not notice the messenger as he stepped into the room; she was engrossed in the financial report that lay before her, her mind filled with ideas concerning the treasurer’s words and how to solve those problems. She also did not realize that the messenger had been standing next to her for several seconds before his voice gained her attention.

“Message for you, milady.” The messenger wore the robes of the Kirin Tor. He quietly placed a sealed envelope next to her elbow. “Archmage Rhonin said that it was urgent.”

Sighing, Jaina took up the letter, breaking the seal with a letter opener. “Every matter seems urgent this morning,” she said in a heavy voice. “Certainly there must be different levels of urgency.”

Opening the letter, she began to read:

 _Lady Proudmoore,_

 __

 _I require your immediate assistance at the rift near Karazhan. There is a matter concerning the prisoner that needs our immediate attention._

 __

- _Archmage Rhonin_

Jaina did not close the letter immediately. She took a moment to grasp both what the letter said and what it did not, both together. Something had occurred at the rift, which she had been craving to examine since she first heard news of its appearance. Had Anders escaped from the tower and gone there? How would he know where to go, and how would he get there so quickly without teleportation?

Had the Templars come looking for him, and had breached the rift into their world?

“Forgive me. There is a matter that requires my immediate attention.” Folding up the letter, Jaina tucked it into a hidden pocket within her robes.

If she delayed, her treasurer might protest that the financial matters of Theramore were matters of extreme importance, perhaps greater than what the Kirin Tor might require of her. Perhaps such a statement might be correct. Jaina did not give herself a chance to consider it further. Taking up her staff, she teleported immediately to Karazhan.

She found herself standing on a great land bridge just a narrow, rocky canyon. Before her, Karazhan stretched upward toward the sky, a black specter beseeching the thick grey clouds above with its twisting, crumbling arms.

Jaina had not intended to teleport here. Something had deliberately diverted her spell. In the past, she had teleported to Karazhan with little trouble. Perhaps the rift’s power, combined with the sheer amount of magical force from the leylines below the surface of Azeroth, forced her spell to partially fail? It was something to remember for the future. Better to teleport to Darkshire and walk than end up in a rock. Or a hundred feet in the air.

She took a moment to survey the canyon below her, to simply feel the sheer amount of energy in the air. Her toes curled of their own accord as she closed her eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath. A series of sensations consumed her, all at once, and she reveled in the feeling of confidence. This is what it was to be a mage, the ability to feel the strength of the planet itself, to be close enough to unlock its very secrets.

To be a good mage, however, was to acknowledge this very realization and walk away from it knowing that there was no safe way to truly take it all in.

She longed to share this with Anders. Inside of her own private darkness, Jaina saw herself walking through the halls of Karazhan, Anders at her side. She saw the spirits stopping to stare at the two of them as Anders would pause every few feet to just stare at the wonders before them, to touch a stuffed owl in the menagerie or to examine the mechanics of a broken, crumbling golem. Karazhan was a mage’s dream, a place so filled with the very wonders of Azeroth, artifacts that only Medivh himself could use and properly understand. Yet it was the challenge of the impossible that drove many mages to aspire to fully comprehend Medivh’s knowledge.

The freedom of the futile. Jaina frowned at the irony of it all as she opened her eyes. Without further delay, she started down the path as quickly as she was able, without breaking out into a run altogether.

At first, she could not see the rift, but merely felt its presence. She did not need to cast any spells to search for the magical energy; Karazhan itself would have skewed the results, at any rate. As she turned a corner in the path and began her final descent to the front door of the tower itself, she stopped and merely stared in horror and fascination all at once.

She recognized Rhonin standing before the rift, flanked by a number of Violet Eye mages, but oh, he was dwarfed by the tear stretching on either side of him, several hundred feet wide. It was unlike anything Jaina had ever seen, not a neat circular portal that she herself could summon, or a gyrating spiral reported to be the prime mode of transportation of the Bronze Dragonflight. This was a rip in reality itself, an angry tear that should not be there, purple and wavering and beckoning to her.

Even if she wanted to stop and stare from a safe distance, Jaina could not and did not. She felt her legs moving of her own accord, out of an instinct to get a closer look at this thing, to learn more about it.

“Glad you came so quickly,” Rhonin said to her as she ascended a pile of rubble, albeit a bit unsteadily, by climbing up the remains of a broken wall. “They’re waiting for us on the other side.” He frowned and made a noise of dissent. “They wouldn’t stay on this side, and no amount of talk convinced them that they were safe.”

“Who?” Jaina inquired. She stood within arm’s reach of the tear now. Somehow, she had expected a mighty wind to blow from nowhere as a result of the disturbance, or for the tear to make some strange, unworldly noise from the sheer amount of power that it both drew and created. It did not. Oddly enough, it was strangely quiet around Karazhan, as it usually was.

“Mages, with me,” Rhonin barked over his shoulder, and the Violet Eye soldiers, each with their staves at the ready, fell in line. In a quieter voice, he murmured, “Follow me. Stay close.”

Then, without another word, he stepped into the rift. Before Jaina would allow herself a moment’s hesitation, she followed him.


	6. Chapter 6

“Have a cup of tea, Your Majesty?”

Varian was in such a hurry to leave the mage tower that he almost ran over Valessa, who stood on the bottom floor in the doorway of the kitchen. He paused in his tracks, turning to face her, and saw immediately from the expression on the young woman’s face that whatever he looked like at the moment, he seemed to frighten her. She uttered a soft gasp and took a step backward into the kitchen.

Reordering his posture and face to appear much friendlier, he replied, “No, thank you.”

“I just pulled an apple crumb cake out of the oven.” Valessa’s voice shook as she spoke. “Perhaps His Majesty might want to take it with him?”

Indeed, the scent of apples and cinnamon permeated the small, round entry room of the tower and gave civility to the rage that slowly declined within Varian. It occurred to him, then, that he had refused his normal breakfast in favor of a quick cup of tea so that he would have time to read his correspondence.

Perhaps he could spare a few minutes for the frightened young woman. She couldn’t have been much older than Anduin, after all, and her youth might be as refreshing as a piece of cake.

“That sounds like…” Varian searched for civilized words, “…a fine idea, apprentice. I think I’ll have a cup of tea, as well.”

“Great!” Smiling, she led the way into the small yet cozy kitchen. “Is Lady Proudmoore not with you?”

Varian pretended not to notice a possible in-road into gossip. It could have been accidental, after all. Valessa did have youth on her side, and could not have realized her obvious misstep in terms of appropriate conversational topics to discuss with one’s monarch. “She is in Theramore tending to her affairs.”

Valessa took up a knife and began to cut a small, round cake into a number of slices. “She’s always working, isn’t she? Why, she was here last night while I was working on my treatise about the arcane.”

Varian stopped himself from sinking into one of the larger kitchen chairs, paused, and stared at Valessa. “You don’t say?” He murmured, his mind slowly working up into an inferno.

“Oh yes,” the girl said as she placed a slice of cake on a plate. “I tried to catch her as she was leaving, but she seemed out of sorts.”

*****  
Nothing Jaina had ever seen before could compare to the ruins that stood all around her.

Stratholme, at least, came through its lengthy crisis and occupation with almost all of its buildings still standing, and it was a mere fraction of the size of the ruin, no, war zone that stood all around her. In this place, iron gates lay scattered about as if a giant had thought they were toys, bent them in two, then grown bored of before casting them aside. Great piles of rubble covered the ground, mountains standing at least half as tall as the Karazhan that they had left behind. Here and there, fires still flickered among the twisted iron and stone and molding remains of rooftops.

There were no trees. No plants, no flowers. Nothing was alive here, even though she heard the sounds that should have indicated life of some sort – shrieks, moans, and high-pitched cackles.

Then, there was the smell, the stench of decay, of rotting things, of life ending. On top of that, this ruin stunk of everything that could possibly go wrong with magic – chemicals ruined and burned, necromancy, demonology, and despair. Even if an army of druids sought to repair this land, no one could live here for at least a hundred years. She could feel the aching of the ground itself, of a destructive force ten times greater than the Scourge footsteps in the Plaguelands.

The sight, smells, and sounds overwhelmed her. Jaina heard herself choke.

“You kept your end of the bargain,” said a man’s voice. “Good.”

Jaina turned to see a group of people approaching them. A dwarf – without a beard, she quickly noted – stepped confidently as he trained what appeared to be a giant crossbow directly at her own breastbone. Next to him, a woman with the bearing of one of the Vykrul females strode forward, her bright and tall shield at the ready. In front of both, Jaina saw a man that needed no introduction, at least to her.

After all, Anders had done a very good job describing him, down to the staff that he held, which had more in common with a polearm than a magical weapon, and the neatly-trimmed black beard on his chin.

“Hawke, this is Lady Jaina Proudmoore,” Rhonin said. He stood stiffly still, his own weapon readied for whatever threat might befall them.

The gaze of the three persons fell upon her. Jaina found herself looking only at Hawke and, realizing that she should speak, she stepped forward.

Hawke, however, spoke before she had the chance. “You have something of mine,” he said. “I want it back.”

“Don’t you mean, ‘someone’?” Jaina inquired without thinking of the consequence of her words.

Fortunately, Hawke smiled at her response. “Touché,” he replied.

For a moment, Jaina found herself, in silence, looking between the face of Hawke, and that of Rhonin. Both men looked as though they might be open to a compromise of some sort – whatever that might be. Though, according to Anders’ tale, Hawke had lost a great deal of political power with the destruction of Kirkwall. Or could his tale be trusted entirely?

“I would like a moment to speak to Hawke,” said Jaina, her voice a bit louder than she dared as she shifted her gaze to Rhonin. “Alone.”

Rhonin stood up a bit straighter from his position of defense, looking somewhat shocked, and definitely as though he did not like the idea.

Hawke raised his chin slightly, his eyebrows knitting together out of what appeared to be suspicion. “Aveline and Varric, could you excuse us for a moment?”

“Jaina –“ began Rhonin, his voice a warning.

“You put the task to me to handle Anders.” Jaina turned her head to look at Rhonin, her tones so low that the nearby Kirin Tor soldiers could only catch bits and pieces of their conversation. “I’m going to handle the situation, as you directed me to do so.”

Rhonin tilted his head, staring at Jaina for a moment with a very critical gaze before speaking. “Very well,” he murmured.

*****

This time, the door to Anders’ quarters did not just open, it burst with such force that the iron hinges tore free from the door’s frame.

Anders refused to appear startled. He sighed as if Varian’s inevitable disturbance had been nothing more than a few gentle words rather than a temper-driven act of violence. However, as he raised his head to look at the king, who now stood in the empty doorway with hands braced on both sides of the opening, he knew that Varian could all but smell his fear and guilt.

After all, Varric had once said that Anders was one of the worst card players that he had ever met. Anders was completely incapable of schooling his face to hide his thoughts.

Apparently, the expression on Anders’ face was enough for Varian. “Hold him,” he growled, and, by his command, the two guards stepped into the room, swiftly crossed it, each taking an arm as they yanked Anders from his chair and dragged him toward their king.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Anders said, allowing this rough treatment, trying not to wince at the iron-like clamps of the guards’ hands on his arms.

There they were. At last, Anders was within arm’s reach, perhaps even closer, to King Varian Wrynn. Then, only then, did he find himself surprised in a way he did not intend, by something he could not have before imagined. As he looked into the king’s blue eyes, his lips silently murmuring a spell, his own eyes widened.

“You’re an abomination, too,” murmured Anders.

It was then that Varian’s eyes narrowed – and Anders would swear afterwards that they turned red entirely. Then, Varian punched him with such force that one of Anders’ ribs cracked with a sickening pop.

*****  
Rhonin stood still, in formation, with the other Kirin Tor mages. Varric and Aveline, however, had both taken much more informal postures. Aveline had set her shield within arm’s reach and sat on the remains of a column, watching as Varric rolled a set of dice and cast them on the ground.

“We don’t want to hold him, and in truth, he wants to come home,” Jaina told Hawke as they walked together, making a slow path away from the rift and toward what appeared to be a rather scenic seashore.

“What’s the problem, then? Are you holding him for his own protection?” Jaina caught the concern in Hawke’s voice as he spoke. Whatever had fallen between them, Hawke didn’t seem to have any hatred toward Anders.

“Yes and no.” No, Jaina’s original assessment had been wrong. There was nothing scenic about the beach, save for the view of a great body of water that seemed to stretch forever. “I can think, based on his report to me, of several reasons to hold him. He’s not only a danger to himself, but others – you, your companions, and others.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Hawke’s voice came out as a gruff rumble, a quality that reminded her of Varian’s own tones. “But do you know what Anders would say to that? He would say that you were no better than the Chantry in that regard.”

“True.” Jaina nodded her head. “But it’s not about assumption of future behavior without precedent, which is the excuse that the Chantry uses.”

“The Chantry created people like Anders.” Hawke paused just before the sea itself, inches away from the place where the waves licked the shore. “I’m not excusing what he did. Not one bit. The damage that they’ve done to him should be their penance. Look, I’m an apostate as well. They could just as easily drag me to the nearest Circle as they could him. I’ve been lucky my entire life, but someday, my luck might run out. And what then? Given the right circumstances, any of us could become Anders, or worse.”

“I disagree,” replied Jaina. “We are the product of our experiences, yes, I agree with you on that. There are some of us that would act within the system to induce change.”

Sighing, Hawke looked at his own boots. “Spoken like someone that has never feared for their life every time they moved within spitting distance of a Templar. The system is broken, and in Kirkwall, it didn’t even follow the rules that they themselves made. What then? There is no fair play in that case.” After a moment, he raised his head, looking directly at her. “There is one circumstance where I would request that you keep Anders in your custody. Does your world have any success with curing possession?”

“Minor cases, yes.” Now, it was Jaina’s turn to avoid Hawke’s gaze. “But I have begun to get the feeling that Anders doesn’t want to be cured. That might make any sort of cure impossible.”

“You’re right.” Hawke made a noise that sounded like a snort. “Sad that you could see it in just a few short days with him.”

“Fortunately,” said Jaina, “I did not have a chance to meet Vengeance.”

*****

As Anders fell to the ground at last, spitting out a mouthful of blood, he managed to follow a diagnostic spell immediately with a healing spell. Most of his ribs were broken, as was his pelvis; he had two concussions, his left eye was badly damaged, and his liver was bleeding into his chest cavity. All in all, had he not bean a healer, the combination of injuries would have meant his eventual death.

As it was, he was certain that he would look swollen and bruised for days to come, even with healing spells.

Varian did not stop the series of spells. Anders could hear him breathing heavily as he stood over him, and as Varian stepped around his body, Anders half-expected for Varian to, again, deliver a kick to the ribs. He, however, did not.

“Are you finished?” Anders barely managed to force the words past his swollen lips. Oh, the pain was intense as the healing spell began to work on his ruptured liver. He fought the urge to cry out.

After all, if the cards fell correctly, he would soon be in no pain at all.

“Yes.” Varian, indeed, sounded sated.

It was then, as Varian started toward the door, that Anders played his hand.

Anders was grateful that he had not been facing Varian, so that the human king did not see the fact that his eyes had begun to glow brightly. As veins of blue shot down his limbs, forcing his body half-into and half-out of reality, he silently rose to his feet, something that he would not have been able to do without the power that surged within him.

Vengeance stole away the throbbing, stabbing pains from every limb. Reaching out a hand, Anders cast a number of spells, one on top of another, the incantations purposely altered to work with the increased level of power.

One of the guardsmen launched into the air and was thrown against a wall, where he was pinned well above a height where his feet could touch the ground. He tried to scream, but as Anders closed his fist, the man’s skull crushed in on itself, sending blood, bone, and brains splattering all over his companion and Varian.

The remaining guard and Varian only watched in horror. Then, very slowly, both faces turned toward Anders.

“Good.” His voice echoed and twisted, his lips twisted into a cruel smile. “My turn.”

*****

“You care deeply for him,” Jaina quietly noted, hoping that Hawke would not suddenly turn on her for making such a personal observation.

“Just because I want to spit fire at the bastard doesn’t mean that I want to see him suffer. And yes, he is suffering, and it kills me to watch it. That thing inside of him is killing him slowly, whether he wants to admit it or not.” Hawke sat on a large rock, placing his staff between his knees. “So, what is it, Lady Proudmoore? Are you going to release him into my custody?”

“Yes.” Jaina ran her fingers up and down her own staff as she spoke. “I will release him on the grounds that he never sets foot on Azeroth again.” The thought of possibly never seeing Anders again caused a hard lump to form in her throat, but she ignored it. Excitement, so fleeting, so thrilling and dangerous – now soon to be gone. They would never play those games of chess after all.

But this was for the best.

Hawke looked up at Jaina. “I thank you for that. I know that you must be tempted to use him as a bargaining chip with other people but me, but I can guarantee that at least I have his best interests in mind.”

“On the contrary,” she replied smoothly, and with a small smile, “I thought nothing of the sort.”

“While we’re on the subject of everyone else,” Hawke continued as he leaned slightly against his staff, “you might be quite the voice that we need in this whole mess that Anders has kicked up. Ever considered joining us?”

Jaina chuckled. “It’s been years since I talked of politics by the light of a campfire, over travelling rations, no less.”

“I’m not joking.” Hawke’s expression grew in intensity. “I know that Thedas puts you on dangerous and unfamiliar turf, but we don’t have a lot of politicians on our side. You actually have the training to speak to persons of influence, unlike Anders who is terrible at it, and me who makes up shit as I go along.” His gaze fell on her staff. “I’m guessing that if you run around with that Archmage, he doesn’t let you do it without battle training, either.”

“You could say that,” Jaina replied modestly. In truth, the offer was tempting, but she could not accept it. It didn’t warrant consideration at all. “However, I unfortunately must decline. I have far too many responsibilities at home.”

Hawke nodded his head, looking not at all surprised. “I expected you to say that, sadly. Our loss.” Standing up slowly, he drew his staff out of the hole in the sand that it had created. “Well, I believe I have a companion to collect, and we’ll leave your rift for the crowned heads of Thedas and Azeroth to gesture at and argue over. We’re late for an extended amount of fleeing for our lives and avoiding capture.”

Jaina nodded her head. “It shouldn’t take long. Soon, you will be on your way.”


	7. Chapter 7

“I wonder,” Anders said, his voice reverberating as he held out a hand toward Varian, palm toward the King of Stormwind, “if your citizens are aware that you are little more than a thug wearing a crown.”

Varian’s clothes were completely soaked with blood, very little of which was his own. The entrails of one of the guards rested near Varian’s booted feet. The suite which Anders had occupied now looked like something of nightmare, the walls covered with blood and gore, and the still-wincing head of one of the guards placed artfully on the writing table among sheets and sheets of writing.

“If you are going to ask me to plead for my life, I won’t do it,” said Varian in a steady, diplomatic voice. “Go on. Kill me. Even if I managed to take up that sword over there, you could cast any of your spells before I took your head off your shoulders. You clearly have the advantage.”

“Clearly.” Anders’ lips tightened into a smirk.

“Come now,” Varian murmured. “Is this vengeance? You have already killed my men and tortured me with curses.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the dismembered head sitting on the writing desk. “Certainly you have repaid me tenfold for my attack on you, though I was merely acting as –“

“A jealous and rather foolish man,” Anders interrupted him. “Had I been any average mage, your little attack would have killed me. My spells are still repairing the damage that you did to me.” The glow faded from his eyes, as did the veins of blue from his body. “Your lady does not love you.”

“I know.” Varian did not disguise how this made him feel. “In conclusion, I believe that we’re even?”

“By the Light.”

The whisper came from nowhere, from the air itself, perhaps, and it caught both men off guard. The air shimmered, and Jaina appeared. The color had drained from her face, and she slowly looked around the room before taking a good step backwards and readying her staff.

“Jaina.” Varian started to stand up. “You’re just in time.”

“What attack?” She turned on Varian, her eyes wide, pinks and reds returning to her face. “What attack?”

Jaina was usually the cool-headed one in any situation. To see her so quickly snap from horror to anger caused Varian to take a step away from her. “As you can see – and as you predicted – this man is extremely dangerous. He attempted to –“

 _“What attack?”_ Her cheeks were aflame, her voice high and filled with rage.

“I killed them.” Anders weakly dropped into a chair, his hands trembling, his own face drawn with the pain of the healing going on within his body. “I do not deny that I would have killed King Varian, as well.”

“See?” Varian pointed at him. “He denies nothing!”

“Yet, I was acting in self defense,” Anders continued as he closed his eyes. “He attacked me, first, with the intent of torturing me. He was not fully aware of what I was capable of. We all know the reason. There is no need to hide anything.”

“Hide? Hide – oh, Light, no.” Herself trembling like a leaf, though out of anger rather than weakness, Jaina turned to Varian. “How could you do this? It was never about this!”

“You know what I am,” Varian said in a firm voice. “The wolf knows –“

“I swear to the Holy Light that if you say something about the wolf protecting its mate, I will do something we will both regret.” Her staff came to be pointed directly at his head.

“So, he is an abomination,” Anders murmured. His eyes were still closed.

“That’s not the point of any of this.” Jaina’s words grew weaker as she shrank away from Varian. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I want him imprisoned in Tol Barad.” Again, Varian pointed at Anders. “Immediately. It is not a request. This is a demand. If the Kirin Tor does not comply, the Alliance will immediately cut all ties with Dalaran. That is a promise that I intend to keep.”

Putting his head in his hands, Anders began to laugh softly. “I see that the spirit of hypocrisy does not change, no matter what world we’re in. Two dangerous abominations are given two completely different fates. At least I did not provoke another to slaughter.”

“He can’t be imprisoned if he’s no longer on Azeroth.” Taking another step backward, Jaina closed her hand around one of Anders’ arms. “Stand up. We’re going. Hawke is looking for you.”

“Hawke?” Anders managed to rise to his feet, but he leaned heavily on Jaina. “I –“

“We’ll discuss the details later.” Giving the silent form of Varian a long, hard look through narrowed eyes, Jaina cast a teleport spell. She and Anders vanished from the gore-covered, blood-splattered room.

*****

“My name is Lady Jaina Proudmoore. I need your horse. I promise that I’ll return her when we’re finished.”

Jaina had placed a saddle on the fat mare even as a farmer’s wife, who had been standing nearby, her mouth hanging open, managed an awkward bow. Though it had been almost twenty-five years since Jaina last placed a saddle and bridle on a horse, her fingers worked quickly, having not forgotten the way.

Just as she tightened the final strap, Anders deftly stepped up, slid his foot into one of the stirrups, and mounted the horse. “Get on,” he said, extending his hand down toward Jaina. “Let’s take advantage of the time that we have before your boyfriend sends an army after us.”

Jaina accepted the boost onto the horse, and soon sat behind Anders, her arms around his slim waist. “He’s not my boyfriend,” she said in a grim voice, trying to ignore the fact that the blood on Anders’ garments was now staining her own. “Not anymore.”

“Which way?” Nudging the mare into a trot, Anders started out of the stable and onto the road.

“Down that road.” Jaina pointed toward the east with an extended finger.

As they left Darkshire, she gave in to the needs of her body and allowed herself to rest against Anders’ back, at last. So many teleports in a small amount of time, along with the horror at seeing the scene in Anders’ chambers and learning what he and Varian had done, everything pressed against her at once with a great force. She needed to eat before she could teleport again. She needed to rest.

She needed to think about what she would do after she and Anders parted ways.

As the path began to wind up, down, and through the mountains, she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, but only a moment.

*****

“I have a lot of regrets.” Anders spoke the words out of the blue as he dismounted the horse, reaching up a hand to offer Jaina his assistance. “Among them will be the fact that I will never get the chance to explore this world, or get to know the good people in it.”

Smiling sadly, Jaina slid off the horse, her hand lingering in his for a moment. “We never had the chance to play our chess game.”

Anders raised his eyebrows. “That’s a shame. I read an entire book on chess strategy, too. I was looking forward to seeing if you were as terrible at it as you claimed to be.”

She laughed as she saw, out of the corner of her eye, Rhonin striding toward them. “I don’t exaggerate. Trust me.”

Anders nodded his head, silence falling between them for a moment before he spoke again. “I want to thank you for your honesty. There’s more that –“

“Anders!” It was Hawke’s voice that shouted from the rift.

Turning, Jaina saw that Hawke and his two companions stood an arm’s length away from the rift, all three taking care to remain balanced on the piles of rubble from Karazhan’s destroyed tower.

“You alright?” Hawke took a step forward, holding out a hand and his staff to keep his balance.

Anders moved toward Hawke, pausing in his steps as he spoke. “I’ll be fine,” he called out. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Don’t take a moment.” It took everything within Jaina’s power to say those words. “Go, quickly, while you have the chance. Just go.”

Rhonin’s gaze moved up and down Anders’ form, clearly taking stock of the blood on his clothes and the bruises on his face. Letting forth a heavy sigh, he extended something that he held in his hand toward Anders – Anders’ own staff.

With a quiet nod, Anders accepted the staff. He turned his head back to Jaina, looking over his shoulder with eyes round, lips pressed together softly. He did not move.

“Go,” she whispered, adding silently, _before I make a fool in front of everyone_.

Anders looked back to Hawke and the rift, and started up the hill of rubble. Rhonin followed in his footsteps, murmuring an occasional suggestion as to where to step as they made their ascent. Then, Rhonin stopped in his own climb, letting Anders go before him, up to Hawke and his companions.

There, Anders paused before Hawke. Jaina could not hear the words that passed between them, and for that, she was somewhat grateful. The exchange lasted a few seconds, and then Hawke led the way through the rift, followed by Aveline, Varric, and at last, Anders.

*****

Jaina placed the diamond ring squarely in front of Varian, on the writing desk that the king occupied.

“I think we need one another,” she said in a steady voice that was not without the slightest touch of emotion, “but we are unable to give ourselves to each other.”

“I agree.” With a quick motion of his fingers, Varian took the ring and slid it into one of the pockets in his tunic. “What happens now?”

“I’m going home,” Jaina replied. She fought the urge to twist her hands behind her back, or to play with her staff. No. She wasn’t a little girl anymore, and there was no reason to show fear. “You have a number of advisors to rely upon, as well as the other leaders of the Alliance. None will hesitate to assist you.”

“None of them,” Varian quietly pointed out, the regret at least creeping into his eyes, “are willing to point out my faults when I need it the most.”

“It’s a pity.” Her words were colder than she truly wanted them to be, but it was a reflection of the ache within her.

Varian nodded his head. “I agree.” Rising from his chair, he gave her a small bow, as was appropriate for the difference in their positions. This formal gesture was not lost on Jaina. “Best of luck to you, Lady Jaina. I have complete confidence in the fact that I can call upon you again when the Alliance is in need of your aid.”

“Long may it reign true.” Her words were equally formal, equally stiff, and sufficed for a farewell. Turning, she walked out of Varian’s private study, and back to her own, where steamer trunks containing decades of possessions and memories waited for her.

She would take the long way home. Her flagship, the Paragon, waited for her in Stormwind Harbor.

*****

“You fucked her, didn’t you?”

It wasn’t the weirdest discussion that Hawke and Anders had ever had while lying in bed together, still drenched with sweat and breathing hard. Anders tried to take it in stride. Sitting up slightly, he reached for the towel resting near the washbasin, dipped it in the water, and began to clean himself.

“Not exactly,” he replied, pretending to be rather consumed with this task of washing.

“You did something with her. I can tell.” Propping up his head on an arm, Hawke gazed up with Anders. “I’m not jealous. You can tell me the truth. It’s not as though we were together at the time, and I know how you can be, what with the whole finding women attractive thing.”

“What do you mean, ‘at the time’?” Anders looked down at Hawke. “Did I miss something? Are we on again?”

Hawke shrugged. “You’re back. You’re here. I’m here.”

“You ended it with me, not the other way around,” Anders pointed out. He folded up the towel neatly and returned it to the washbasin.”

“You were a prick and a liar.” Hawke stretched out on his back, staring at the ceiling beams above their heads. “You know how much I hate being lied to – and this was a pretty big lie to tell.”

“Fine. I didn’t…have sex…with her, but we did have a bit of fun.” Sighing, Anders slid down the headboard of the bed until he, too, lay on his back. “Is there anything I can do to regain your trust?”

“Yes. Work at it. Get started now, because you have a lot of work to do.” Hawke lifted his head, scooted toward Anders, and rested his head comfortably on Anders’ chest. “You fucking decide to pull a stunt like you did in Kirkwall, you will tell me about it before you do it, not after. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” Anders began to run his fingers through Hawke’s hair, stroking the short, thick strands. “I still love you, you know.”

“You’re not getting off that easy.” Hawke’s body relaxed as he closed his eyes. “Emotional manipulation doesn’t work with me. You know that. Now go to sleep.”

Silence fell in the room, and between them. Resting both of his hands on Hawke’s back, Anders sighed again, closing his eyes. Even if Hawke still felt betrayed and hurt, this was nice, at least. This was theirs, the warmth and tenderness and the chance to be close. No one could take that away from them.

Then, just as Anders started to drift off, he heard Hawke’s voice again:

“I wouldn’t have let you back in bed with me if I didn’t feel the same way, you know. You just need to say it all the time. Mad, needy bastard. Yes, we’re on again. I couldn’t do this shit without you.”

Smiling to himself, Anders allowed himself to relax, and at last to sleep.

~END~


End file.
